The boat race

The Manzanita is moored in Positano. She is 9 metres long, has a Philip Stark interior and sleeps four. The harbour master, Antonio, who has his pick of the boats when they’re not chartered, always chooses the Manzanita to sit on and gaze at the stars when he’s on night duty. There is something supremely elegant about her lines: she has a grace the others lack. If she were a girl out with a group of friends, she would be the one everyone noticed.
When he’s working during the day though, he spends most of his time sitting on a small plastic chair at the foot of the narrow stone steps that lead down from the town to the port. Antonio’s office consists of an oblong black metal box he stores under the chair. Here he keeps the records of who has paid, who needs fresh water, and who requires help when berthing. Some boat owners don’t ever seem to get it right. The French couple for example, from Conca dei Marini. How long had they had their little Ron Holland designed boat? Ten years at least, and every time there is a panic. If anyone needs a skipper they do, but they are too proud to hire one, or maybe too mean.
“I think they enjoy the drama,” his wife says as they eat on the terrace of their small house tucked away in the back streets of the old town. “Maybe their lives are dull.”
“Dull? How can your life be dull when you’re as rich as they are?” Antonio replies, tearing a piece of bread in two and mopping up the remains of the Puttanesca sauce in his bowl. “Dull is sitting in that port day and night.”
His wife nods. She knows as well as he does that he doesn’t mean it, but it isn’t the done thing for a peasant to enjoy his lot in life.
Antonio goes to bed early. Tomorrow two English men are coming to charter the Manzanita. Luckily Massimo the skipper will be with them. In Antonio’s experience, there is only one thing worse than an Englishman in charge of a boat, and that’s two of them.


The two men have known each other since they were eight years old and they arrived on a chilly September morning to a new life at Lambert Hall, a small prep school in rural Yorkshire. Lambert Hall is in a place that SatNavs can rarely find and that seems to have its own microclimate, which is always at least five degrees colder than anywhere else in England. Suddenly their cosy bedrooms at home were replaced with a stark dormitory full of other boys; their mother’s cooking substituted with mass-produced school food and instead of their mother’s cuddles and love there was a rather dour Yorkshire woman called Jackie who was head matron and shared among the 200 boys.
There is not a human emotion they haven’t gone through together. From fear to triumph to cold to hunger to exhaustion and relief, the boys experienced them all collectively. There is also not a sport or a subject they haven’t competed in from cricket, football and rugby to Latin, History and Maths. At school, an exam result was not complete until they knew what the other one had got. If one of them scored a goal, the other redoubled his efforts.
But although the competition is fierce between them, they are always united when faced with an outside enemy. It had been that way from the very first miserable, rain-sodden, homesick term at prep school and continued in the same vein when they went on to public school together. They remained best friends and closest competitors. Their whole lives they had been racing against each other.
This year they are celebrating their 30th birthdays. A milestone Rupert suggested they should mark with a three-day boat trip, which he would pay for. After all, he is an investment banker working for Goldman Sachs. Tom had gone into what Rupert calls ‘the arts’, by which he means any career outside finance, so hardly makes any money at all.
So when they get to Positano on a cloud-free Thursday morning and are greeted by the harbour master Antonio along with Massimo, the skipper, Rupert is already ahead in the race.
Of course Tom doesn’t openly acknowledge this. He thinks it’s jolly generous of Rupert, even if the trip rather conveniently coincides with his actual birthday. Their female companions, who had not met each other before the flight from London to Naples the night before, have no idea of the undercurrents in play; patterns and paths formed over several decades of friendship that determine the men’s behaviour.
In fact the two friends don’t really understand it themselves but it is as inevitable as breathing.
“Welcome to La Manzanita,” Massimo smiles broadly. Maria, who is there with Tom, is immediately reminded of Farmer Oak, who when he smiled “his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.”
He reminds Annika, the half-Swedish, half-Italian model Rupert has brought along “in case we need a translator” of her first boyfriend, a lumberjack from Malmö called Sven.
Massimo is one of those rare Neapolitan Italians with a mass of curly blond hair, and his physique could most definitely have been honed chopping wood. His bright blue eyes seem to have taken on the colour of the sea.
“Here comes my deckhand Carla,” he says, nodding towards a slim dark girl walking towards them. “She doesn’t speak any English but is very strong.”
“Sounds ideal,” whispers Rupert to Tom.
“Carla and I will arrange all your meals but we will sleep in the ports when we can as the boat is only big enough for four. When we can’t get onshore we will camp out on the deck. There are not too many rules, the obvious safety ones of course, and obedience when I need it from you. Capice?”
Everyone nods in agreement. Carla approaches Massimo, kisses him hello, and acknowledges the assembled group. They say something in Italian before Massimo announces it’s time to set sail.
“Do you remember the last time we were on a boat together Tom?” says Rupert as they take off their shoes before stepping on board. “It was that holiday with my parents just after A Levels. We were 19.”
Tom nods. “Yes, I do, we were in Croatia.”
“That’s right,” says Rupert, walking on to the boat to make room for the others behind him. “My parents had some awful argument and my father flew back home?”
Tom nods and the two men move towards the bow along the smooth, sun-bleached wooden deck, so smooth it looks like it’s been sanded down with a nail file.
“I still have no idea what it was about, they wouldn’t say, I expect it was the same old thing, you know, my father forcing her to send me away to prep school so young,” Rupert adds, looking up at the cliffs above them. “Check out that house,” he points at a white mansion in the middle of the cliff. “It looks like a bird’s nest, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” says Tom, thankful for the chance to get Rupert off the subject of the boat trip. He does know what the argument between his parents all those years ago was about. “It belonged to the American writer Gore Vidal.”
Rupert looks blank. Tom laughs.
“Still reading a lot are you, Bear?”
“Don’t have much time for books sadly, too busy making money.”
“Gore Vidal,” Tom continues, “was famous for his polemical style, wit and polished prose. He died a couple of years ago. One of his most famous quotes is ‘It is not enough to succeed, others must fail.’”
“Sounds like our school motto,” interrupts Rupert.
Tom laughs and nods. “He was also gay as a badger.”
“Are badgers gay?” Annika joins them at the bow, with Maria. She is wearing a white linen loose fitting dress, through which a small white bikini is just visible. Maria, who is at least a foot shorter than her, feels dowdy in comparison in her pale pink Zara shorts and a blue T-shirt. Just her luck, she thinks, to be on a cruise with an Amazonian supermodel. She and Rupert make an incredibly glamorous blond couple. They look like something out of an ad for some clean, preppy American clothes brand. They are the sort of people Maria never meets; rich and successful with white teeth and long limbs. And she was happier before she did. Tom seems to sense her discomfort and puts his arm around her. A rare sign of affection, which cheers her up.
“You lot stay up there while we cast off,” shouts Massimo.
The four of them sit down as the boat begins to move. They watch the port of Positano diminish as they head towards the open sea.

The birthday dinner is planned for the following evening at Paestum, an ancient Greek city on the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
“En route we will stop in Amalfi to taste the best ice cream this side of Naples,” says Massimo. “Then we will sail through the night, Carla and I will work in shifts, while you sleep. In the morning we will wake up at the Cala degli Infreschi, one of the most stunning places on God’s earth. We should get to Paestum late afternoon.”

Tom is sleeping deeply. Maria doesn’t want to wake him by looking for her bikini so she silently creeps out of their shared bunk, grabs her yellow sarong from the floor and walks up the wooden stairs to the deck. It is mid-May and probably only around 8 in the morning, but the sun already has proper heat in it. Apricity flows over her like a warm blanket. She squints as she gets used to the bright day and then looks around. She has never seen anywhere so beautiful. They are in a perfectly shaped cove with mountains either side and in front of her a small, perfectly white sandy beach. There is no sign of life, no sound bar the gentle noise of their boat moving in time to the water. Massimo and Carla are both asleep on yoga mats near the bow of the boat. Maria quietly lowers the white wooden ladder, takes off her sarong and climbs into the clear, cold sea. She feels a frisson between freshness and excitement. She has never swum naked before; it gives her a feeling of freedom. She watches her arms reach out through the water, feels her legs push against it to propel her around the boat.
Maria had been working at Hilton Crown Literary Agency for two years. She has been sleeping with her boss for three months. It started as most of these things do, with a late-night pizza after a particularly stressful day negotiating a three-book deal on behalf of one of their authors. The first time she’d met Tom when he joined nine months ago she hadn’t imagined they would end up as lovers, she would have laughed if anyone had told her they would. She loathed the old secretary screwing the boss cliché. But it’s incredible how working closely with someone all day long changes your view of them, how a kind of addiction creeps in, how even though you spend more time with them than anyone else, you find yourself missing them when you’re not together.
Maria swims back to the steps and begins to haul herself out. She has a brief moment of panic when she sees movement from the deck. She hasn’t really thought about how to get back onto the boat, naked.
Luckily it’s Annika, who is wearing only a pink G-string. Maria feels positively overdressed as she wraps her sarong around her wet body.
“Oh my God,” says Annika, looking around. “If you had to draw a picture of the perfect beach then this would be it. Do you think this is where they filmed that Di Caprio film?”
Maria shakes her head, her brown curly hair is wet and the drops from it fall over her shoulders and down her back. “No, that was in Thailand.”
They sit down at the table: Massimo and Carla have started to prepare breakfast. Coffee with hot milk and some Italian biscotti, grapes and slices of melon.
“So how long have you been together with Tom?”
Maria blushes and looks around to make sure no one is listening.
“I’m not really sure you can call it together,” she begins. Tom has never referred to her as his girlfriend. She doesn’t really know where she stands with him. It’s almost as if he’s married, and she’s his mistress, even though she knows he’s single.
“I mean this is the first time I’ve met any of his friends. We just kind of work together and then have sex really, if that makes sense? We don’t really go out like normal couples.”
Annika nods. “So it’s not true love?”
Maria thinks for a moment. “Well, not for him. I mean he does say ‘I love you doing this or that’ but…”
Annika laughs. “There’s a big difference between ‘I love you doing this or that to me’ and ‘I love you’. Although I often think even when they’re saying ‘I love you’, the rest of the sentence is silent!”
Maria dunks the biscotti in her coffee. It melts in her mouth, flavours of strong espresso mixed with that long-life milk you get on the continent that back in England would taste hideous but here seems perfectly acceptable.
“How about you and Rupert?”
Annika leans back in her seat and throws her arms behind her head. She really does have the most perfect body. Large, firm breasts and long-limbed frame that doesn’t seem to carry one ounce of fat anywhere.
“I’ve only known him for two weeks,” she says. “I met him at a drinks party. He’s fun, silly name though. And why does Tom call him Bear?”
“It’s after a comic strip character called Rupert Bear. You’d probably recognise him, he always wears the same red jumper and yellow checked trousers with a matching scarf. It’s a name from school.”
“Oh I see. Well anyway I’m only here really to annoy my boyfriend who has gone off on a stag weekend.”
“You have a boyfriend? Does Rupert know that?”
“Yes,” laughs Annika. “Says that’s one of the most attractive things about me. He’ s a bit of a commitment-phobe I think.”
Tom, who emerges from their cabins closely followed by Rupert, interrupts their conversation.
“Last one in is a rotten banana,” he shouts, jumping in before he’s even finished the sentence to ensure he won’t be. Rupert immediately leaps in too. The two women stand on deck watching the men swim around the boat, racing, laughing and chatting like over-excited Labradors who have just discovered the joy of swimming.

“Another day, another Mediterranean paradise,” Rupert says to no one in particular as he walks onto the deck. It is mid-afternoon and they are approaching Paestum.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” says Maria, who is sitting close by with her legs dangling over the edge, looking at the ancient city. “And to think this is how the Greeks would have arrived here back in 450 BC, by boat. They really knew how to pick the best spots, didn’t they?”
Rupert joins her, also dangling his legs over the edge.
“Funny I’ve never met you before,” he says. “Why has Tom been hiding you? You look all right to me!”
Granted she isn’t a looker like Annika, Rupert thinks. She’s rather small and mousey really, but perfectly acceptable, lovely green eyes and a luminous smile. And she has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re the only man in the world.
Maria smiles and looks down. She feels herself blushing. She can’t help feeling shy with Rupert. “We haven’t really been together that long, or rather it’s not really official. It’s all a bit tricky, with work and everything.”
Rupert nods. “Yes, I can understand that.”
“Amazing to think that those temples were built thousands of years ago,” she says, looking up again and changing the subject to one she feels more secure about. What’s the point in everyone else trying to define her relationship with Tom when she can’t even define it herself?
“There’s a famous painting here, called the Diver I think, one of the earliest examples of Greek figure painting.”
Rupert turns to her. “How do you know all this?”
She shrugs and looks down at their four legs: they are all moving to the same rhythm with the boat. “Well, you know all about money, which I don’t. Maybe we know about what we care about?”
“Well everyone cares about money, don’t they?” he says staring at her.
Maria looks up at him, meets his eyes, smiles that engaging smile and shakes her head. “I don’t,” she says quietly.

It takes Maria a few minutes to get used to walking on dry land. Her legs seem rather too big for her body and she can still feel herself swaying in time to the rhythm of the water. Rather like the mother of a newborn still rocking the baby to sleep long after the baby has been put into bed. They are walking through the ancient city of Paestum. She can’t decide how she feels about seeing Rupert and Tom together. She has heard a lot about Rupert of course. Almost every memory Tom has involves him, she feels like she knows him intimately although they have only just met.
The boys are almost too close to each other, it’s as if either she is encroaching on their relationship or Rupert is encroaching on hers with Tom. Of course it is possible to have intimate relationships with more than one person, but she finds the two of them together rather threatening. They have a habit of closing ranks, even when they’re teasing each other: which is most of the time. “Banter” Tom calls it, which drives Maria mad. It’s not banter; it’s just bloody rude.
“You don’t understand,” he said when she mentioned it. “It’s just the way we’ve always been.”
Maybe it’s a public school thing. Maria went to her local comprehensive in Oxford, where banter would have been called bullying.
“It’s a bit like being in Legoland, don’t you think?” says Rupert.
“Bear, please don’t let your intellectual side rule you,” says Tom. “You’ll put us all to shame.”
“No, fuck you,” says Rupert. “I mean in the sense that it’s an ancient world we’re walking through, almost like it’s been recreated for us, like a theme park.”
The women both stick up for him. Rupert always had an ability to make women take his side. Back at prep school he had all the matrons fawning over him. It was one of the most irritating things about him. He was boyishly good looking, even now at 30. They had both been blond when they arrived at school aged eight, now Tom is mousy brown. But by now he’s used to being Rupert’s mousier, slightly uglier sidekick. He always made up for it with his wits.
They walk around the ancient streets visiting the temples of Hera and Neptune. At the amphitheatre they split into two teams and play charades. Other tourists stop to watch as the competition intensifies.

That evening the men swap their shorts and T-shirts for chinos and shirts, and the women wear dresses. Massimo and Carla have prepared the table with a white linen tablecloth and fig-scented candles. There are bottles of Veuve Cliquot cooling in a large silver ice bucket.
“There’s nothing quite as exquisite as that first sip of champagne,” says Rupert, filling their glasses.
“It’s a bit like your first kiss,” says Tom.
“Oh no, my first kiss was awful,” says Maria. “Some spotty youth called David behind the bike shed at school. Such a cliché.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with a cliché,” says Rupert. “If you think about it, things only become clichés because there’s something to them.”
He raises his glass.
“Happy birthday to us,” he says.
“Happy birthday to us,” say Tom, raising his glass to meet Rupert’s.
“Happy birthday to you,” chorus the girls.
“Auguri,” says Massimo, poking his head out from the small kitchen. “Dinner in 15 minutes.”
They start with Pasta Alfredo; fettuccine with a rich creamy sauce. This is followed by grilled turbot and roasted fennel. The pudding is a tiramisu with Tom, Rupert and the number 30 written on top of it in mascarpone cheese.
There is a satisfied silence around the table. Massimo and Carla have done the washing up and gone on shore. There is no longer a horizon; the definition between sky and sea is blurred, everything is dark, just the moon, the stars and the candles on the round table light up the night.
“We have a present for you, Rupert” announces Tom. “Hang on, I’ll go and get it.” He returns less than a minute later with a wooden rectangular box. “It’s from all of us, to say thank you.”
Rupert stands up and takes the box from him. He lifts the lid to reveal a bottle of port.
“It’s from the year of our birth,” he says, investigating the bottle. “How amazing, thanks to all of you.”
He kisses the girls, shakes Tom’s hand and sits down again.
“We’ve had it standing upright for a week,” adds Tom hopefully. “To allow the sediment to settle.”
“Great stuff,” says Rupert. “I’ll enjoy this on my own, once I get home.”
There is a moment’s silence.
“OK only joking, let’s open it.”
Everyone cheers. Tom goes off to find some suitable glasses. Rupert carefully uncorks the bottle.
“We really need a decanter if we’re going to do this properly,” he says.
A parcel is brought up from under the table.
“Let me guess…” laughs Rupert, opening the box with a decanter in it.
“Is it called port because naval officers used to serve it from port to port?” says Tom.
“Which way is that?” asks Annika.
“Clockwise,” says Rupert.
“No, it’s named after the town it comes from in Northern Portugal, Oporto,” says Maria.
“Honestly Maria, where do you come up with all this knowledge?” asks Rupert.
Maria smiles. “Oh some book or other we sold a couple of years ago about the history of alcohol.”
Rupert carefully decants the port. “The tradition is that I serve the person to my right,” he pours some port into Annika’s glass. “And then I pass the decanter to my left,” he says passing the decanter on to Maria.
“And what do I do?” she says. “I’m way out of my comfort zone.”
Tom puts his arm around her. “You do the same,” he says, kissing her on the side of her head.
The port travels around the table.
“I propose a toast,” says Tom, standing up with his glass in his hand. “To the next thirty years.”
They all touch glasses.
“We’ll be sixty,” says Rupert. “Do you think we’ll be too old to celebrate on this boat?”
“I wonder what we’ll all be doing,” says Tom, taking another sip of port.
“Whether we’ll be married,” says Rupert. “Maybe even divorced by then.”
Tom laughs. “Yes I predict that you, Bear, will have been married at least twice by then and be on to your third wife: each of them younger by ten years than the last. And all of them a direct replica of Mattie the Australian matron we both fell madly in love with at school.”
They all laugh.
“I hope not,” says Rupert. “One wife is bad enough, but three…Now, Annika, do you know who the Bishop of Norwich is?”
“I’ve no fucking idea,” she replies. “What the hell has he got to do with anything?”
“He’s an awfully good fellow, but he never passes the port,” Rupert and Tom both shout in unison and roar with laughter.
“Don’t worry,” says Maria to Annika who is looking utterly bemused, “it’s just another stupid port tradition. You’re not meant to ask someone to pass the decanter, so it’s a way of alerting the person closest to it that you would like it. Though why they have to involve the Bishop of Norwich I’ve no idea.”
“If I do ever get married,” says Rupert rather loudly. “I want to marry someone as clever as Maria.”
“Hear, hear,” says Tom.
“Yes, so do I,” says Annika, raising her glass. “To Maria.”
The three of them toast Maria, who blushes and smiles: she has never had so much attention, or come to think of it so much port.
“Thank you,” she says, raising her glass. “And thank you Rupert, for inviting us all. I’ve had the best time ever.”
“I’m so glad you could come,” says Rupert. “Let’s hope Tom doesn’t keep you hidden away when we get back to civilisation.”
“Funny you should call London civilisation,” Maria replies. “I can’t think of anywhere more civilised than here.” Maria pushes the thought away that tomorrow it’s back to reality. Back to, if she’s honest, a dysfunctional relationship that seems to be going nowhere. Maybe it’s time to take proactive action and end it.
“Let’s drink to civilisation,” says Tom, “wherever we find it.”
After another half an hour of drinking port Annika’s head starts to spin, which she takes as a sign to go to bed. She bids the birthday boys goodnight and walks unsteadily down the ladder to the bunks. The remaining three decide to lie on the deck looking at the stars. Maria nestles between the two men. It is around midnight. There is no light pollution at all. The Mediterranean sky above them is much like the one the ancient Greeks would have fallen asleep under when they lived in Paestum.
After a while Maria closes her eyes and is half asleep when she feels Tom take her hand. His touch is warm and secure.
“I’m off to bed,” he says. “See you in a bit.”
She doesn’t open her eyes, she’s so comfortable: she doesn’t want to move: she doesn’t want anything to disrupt this perfect moment. She hears Tom get to his feet and walk towards the cabins. But the hand that is holding hers is still there.

The following morning Rupert goes into Tom’s cabin to tell him what has happened, but Tom already knows. He went up to check on Maria when dawn broke and saw them together.
“I’m so sorry,” says Rupert. “I didn’t mean for this to happen and if you mind, then obviously I’ll back off.”
“I don’t mind at all, Bear,” says Tom.
“And I want you to know that this is really not about having what you have, about winning a race or anything. I know sometimes things get a bit out of hand between us, that competitive thing we have, but this is not the case with Maria.”
Tom nods.
“It’s an odd thing,” says Rupert, trying to look contrite but actually beaming. “It’s the first time I’ve ever met anyone who makes me think about anything other than making money and being the best at everything. She seems to have found a side of me even I didn’t know.”
Tom nods. “She’s a lovely girl.”
Rupert hugs him awkwardly before walking out of the cabin. Physical contact between the boys has always been brief and slightly strained. No one at a boarding school wanted to be accused of being gay. It’s odd that to this day they can’t give each other a proper hug,
Tom sits down on his bunk and puts his head in his hands. He does mind. But of course he had to say he didn’t. He was getting ready to commit to Maria. He was beginning to feel like she was the one.
He thinks back to their Croatian boat trip 11 years ago. Back then it was the turn of another man, Rupert’s father, to discover a relationship that had blossomed during the cruise.
He had walked onto the deck at 3am to find his wife Lucy kissing Tom. It was the first of many kisses Lucy would give Tom. In fact from that day more than 11 years ago she never stopped kissing him. And until he met Maria, his relationship with Lucy had prevented him from getting close to anyone else.
Tom closes his bags and walks up the ladder into the morning sunshine. Maria, Rupert and Annika are having one last swim before they all have to go back to London. Massimo walks up to him.
“It’s been fun, eh?” he says, shaking his hand. “Next week we race her, are you sure you don’t want to stay on? You’re not a bad deckhand.”
Tom smiles at him.
“No thanks,” he says. “I think I’ve had enough racing.”

Someone call the tooth fairy…

It all starts with a phone call.
“Mummy,” Olivia yells. “It’s an emergency, I came off my bike and my tooth has come out. There’s blood everywhere.”
It is impossible to work out from the hysterical rant where she is but we rush out of the house at 11.30 at night in the general direction of Headington. By the time we are half way there Olivia has taken control, called an ambulance and is being looked after by paramedics. We arrange to meet at the A & E unit of the John Radcliffe hospital.
“We’ll probably be here until four in the morning,” I half-joke to Rupert as we walk in.
Soon afterwards Olivia gets there. She looks awful. Swollen lips and blood on her face and hands.
“I have the tooth,” she tells me proudly. I want to weep.
The ambulance lady tells us to go to the waiting room while she sorts out the paperwork with the admin staff. An hour and a half later we are seen by a nurse who takes Olivia’s temperature, does some blood tests and runs an ECG.
“You’ll have to wait to see the doctor,” she says.
“How long?” asks Olivia, who is by now in pain and terribly uncomfortable with ECG plasters all over her and a needle in her arm.
“Well, there are nine people in front of you. Probably about an hour and a half.”
I look at my phone; it is just after 1am.
“Why don’t you go home?” I say to Rupert in true Swedish masochistic fashion. “There’s no point both of us waiting.”
Rupert leaves quicker than you can say Zlatan. Olivia and I settle back into our chairs in the waiting room.IMG_0337
Happily there are no horrific injuries. In fact with some people it’s tough to determine who is the patient and who is the carer. Opposite us there is a mother there still wearing her Oratory School overall with her two red-haired sons who look like they are in their late teens. To our left an elderly woman is huddled up in the corner using a nylon onsie as a pillow. I have no idea what’s wrong with her, apart from her onsie that is, and some rather dodgy slippers. Olivia offers to help her open a carton of orange juice she is struggling with, but she firmly refuses. A boy in white football kit sits on the other side of the room, the initials LM on his shirt, just like the pros. He is barefoot so I assume something has happened to his feet. To the right of us, almost hidden by a coffee machine that invites us to “relax with a long milky latte” on a small screen, is what I think must be a homeless man by the look of him. He is snoring lightly, clutching a green plastic bag with ‘Patients Possessions’ written on it in black. He wears thick red and white socks and no shoes.
An elderly man arrives and plonks himself next to us. He immediately offers Olivia an orange juice from a white paper bag. Olivia shakes her head.
“The snack packs you get at this time of night are not up to much,” he tells us helpfully. He must be a regular. Olivia groans in pain and looks for her headphones. They’re covered in blood from the fall. I wipe them with a tissue.
“I’m diabetic as well,” says the regular to no one in particular.
“Philip,” we hear a nurse raising her voice from a treatment cubicle not far from the waiting room. “No spitting.”
“I’m from AFRICA,” shouts Philip in defiance. “From Uganda.”
“That’s great,” says the nurse. “We need to rehydrate you Philip, you’ve had too much to drink. I need to put this needle in.”
The regular burps or farts, I can’t tell which. “Pardon me,” he says smiling at us. “Does your friend want some orange juice?” he asks Olivia, nodding towards me.
Olivia removes her headphones. “She’s my mother.” Then she lies back in the chair and closes her eyes.
“How long did it take you to do your nails?” asks the regular in his warm Oxfordshire tones. Olivia doesn’t respond.
“I think she’s asleep,” I say.
“Oh,” he replies. “I thought she was just dozing.”
There is a loud crash. Philip has thrown something at the nurse.
“You’re the devil,” he shouts.
“I’ll call security,” she threatens.
There is an alarm coming from somewhere that never ceases. It is made up of two beeps, one low sonorous one and the other shorter and sharper on top. A rather repetitive hospital concerto.
The regular huffs and puffs and tries to strike up a conversation with the lady with the onsie, she’s not interested.
“Liam Mulligan,” calls a blonde nurse. The young footballer gets up and follows her on his shoeless feet.
“Philip do you know why you’re here?” asks the nurse in the distance.
Philip grunts.
“Your neighbours found you collapsed in the lift and called an ambulance.”
Everyone is here for a reason. Obviously most people come because they’re ill or hurt. But the regular just seems to be looking for someone to talk to. I wonder how often he comes here. He still bears the marks of a normal human being, for example his blue check short-sleeved shirt is immaculately ironed. But he wears filthy slippers and his hair is dirty. His manners though are impeccable. The regular was obviously a man of discipline and rules before he fell into this circle of hell that is the A&E unit. Now he can’t seem to get out. I imagine him there night after night with his inferior snack pack trying to strike up conversations with people who don’t want to talk.
As it gets later (or earlier depending on which way you look at it) the circles of hell get more sinister. After 3 am we are getting to the business end of the night. A fat drunk person of indeterminate sex and more tattoos than clear skin walks in, glares at the woman with the onsie for a few minutes as if they are about to murder her (or maybe steal her onsie), then lies down on the floor and falls asleep.
In the distance the alarm churns out its monotonous symphony. It has now penetrated my head to such an extent that I think if I will hear it for hours after we leave, rather like you sway after getting off a boat.
The tussle with Philip is finally over. He must have fallen asleep.
It is now almost 4am. Olivia is still asleep. Three young students come in; one of them so drunk he can barely move. He sits down next to the Oratory school mother who moves seats immediately in case he projectile vomits. He doesn’t, he just leans forward onto his arms and falls asleep, his head hanging like a heavy pendulum from his neck.
His two friends sit close by: a boy and a girl. They are formal with each other, almost shy. The girl, who has blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail, has brought some studies with her. Very sensible.
A nurse comes and calls the name Thomas. The pendulum sways slightly.
“Thomas, can you stand?” she asks, approaching him. Again there is a sign that he has heard her, but barely any movement. The nurse and Thomas’s friends heave him to his feet and take him off to a cubicle.
Oratory mother’s son comes back from his check-up and they leave. So now it’s just us and the nutters. The regular has fallen asleep, an unopened orange juice in one hand.
The homeless man is called. He moves unsteadily, obviously drunk as well. As he sways past us I see a tattoo all the way down his left arm. Carpe Diem it reads. He clearly didn’t.
It is half past four. Olivia wakes up in pain. “I just want to go home,” she wails. I ask the nurse how many more until we see the doctor. Two more. The bright neon lights now feel like an instrument of torture. Everything hurts and I’m not even injured.
Thomas is wheeled past. His friends get up to follow the bed. They stand a respectful distance from the cubicle, but close to each other. They talk about Thomas, just to keep the conversation going. They smile a lot. I wonder if they were at a party and about to start snogging before Thomas lost the plot. Maybe they will joke about this night on their wedding day.
A nurse comes in and wakes up the regular. She gives him a small plastic pot.
“No rush,” she says. “But when you can.”
The regular looks at her and then the pot. “If I don’t want to widdle I don’t want to widdle. It’s as simple as that,” he says.
Another drunk arrives. He sits down for a minute then gets up, his frayed, dirty jeans covering his bare feet. He shuffles up and down the corridor opposite the waiting room like a tiger in a cage. Does anyone wear shoes in this place?
At 5 o’clock a doctor finally comes for us. He is neither McDreamy nor McSteamy. In fact the closest we have had to any lookers is an orderly with a fleeting resemblance to Eden Hazard.
“Hello,” says the doctor brightly. “And what brings you to A&E this morning?”
“Actually we arrived last night,” I tell him.
He examines Olivia, asks some questions and then we are free to go. My neighbour who is a doctor thinks they might have kept us in to check for any signs of concussion, but they might have told us that. It feels like an extremely long wait for not much.
The ambulance lady from earlier reappears.
“Have you come to drive me home?” asks Olivia sleepily.
“You wish,” she smiles, giving her a hug.
We walk out into the broad daylight.
“You go in when it’s dark and come out when it’s light,” I say to Olivia. “It’s the opposite of going to the cinema.”
We see Rupert driving towards us. I can’t wait to get home. “And I thought the film went on a bit.”

What happened to Hugh?

My husband’s and my reaction to the images of Hugh Grant doing a great impression of a beached whale in Mallorca were very different.
“How disgusting,” I said, pushing away my breakfast. “There’s no excuse for that.”
“How marvellous,” said my husband. “The pressure’s off. Pass me another sausage.”
Up and down the country men of a certain age not only breathed a sigh of relief, but allowed themselves to breathe out properly and let it all hang out for the first time in years.
Here was Hugh Grant, cinematic icon, sex symbol and floppy-haired hero looking worse than them. I can imagine them admiring themselves in the mirror thinking ‘I haven’t even got moobs, I’m a stud’.34DA342400000578-0-image-m-11_1464907508168
Hugh is a classic example of a middle-aged man who has decided that for him the war is over. By war I mean the battle to stay in shape, to remain young looking, and meet the ageing process head on. He has decided to slide into middle age in comfort (and rather dodgy looking swimming trunks).
I have lots of friends who have done the same. They have vast bellies, their shoulders seem to have vanished, they are jowly and look, well, old. Their wives on the other hand don’t. They take care of themselves, stay trim and dye their hair. They are starting to look ten, even 20, years younger than their frumpy husbands.
There really is no excuse to look like Hugh Grant. While I know men who are heading inexorably towards a flabby future, there are those (much rarer) who have taken charge of their destiny. They exercise, they don’t drink a bottle of wine a night and they watch what they eat. I have one friend who at 40 is younger than Hugh but he has the body of a 20 year old. I can’t imagine that by 55 he will have let it all go.
Staying in shape becomes a habit once you start. It’s the starting that’s tough. Especially when you’ve sunk as low as Hugh has. But the amazing thing about getting in shape is that it really doesn’t take very long. Start now. Do some exercise every day. Cut alcohol down to weekends. Try not to eat bread every day, or carbs at night. There are tiny tweaks you can make to your life that done together will add up to a new, rejuvenated and reinvigorated you. Who looks like Hugh Grant used to. I feel a sequel to Smart Women don’t get Wrinkles coming on. Yep, you guessed it. Smart Men don’t get Moobs.

Smart women don’t get wrinkles

My new book is out. It all started with a flourish this weekend when the Daily Telegraph serialised it (link below).
Publishing a book is a bit like having a baby. There is a long gestation period, followed by the new-born phase where you have to help them along. After a while you just have to let them go and hope for the best.
The good news is, they are unlikely to rebel in their teenage years and the worst thing they can do is refuse to sell.image1
So my new baby is out there, and if you do buy it, I hope you enjoy Smart women don’t get wrinkles. Of course we do get wrinkles, but the point of the book is to minimise them, and also to meet ageing head-on as opposed to just letting it take us over.
I think this is a great time to be ageing. A friend of mine suddenly has a 70 year-old boyfriend and said yesterday “well, of course 70 isn’t old any more”. Imagine saying that even 10 years ago? Look at style icon Iris Apfel gracing our TV screens at 90 in a car ad. Or that Swiss billionaire having twins aged 54. On a more negative note, Japan is suffering from a ‘grey crime-wave’.
If 70 isn’t old any more and you may be called on aged 90 to advertise a car your great-grandchildren will be driving, you need to make sure you are ageing well enough to enjoy life once you get there. And this is what the book is about, not just wrinkles. It’s all about how to stay young, when you get old.
Happy reading!

The wrong message

I read with dismay that Germany is about to introduce single-sex carriages on the underground due to the amount of sex attacks on women by migrants.
What kind of message does this send? It sends a message that we are willing to accept this outrageous behaviour and are taking steps to incorporate it into our society and way of life.images
This is entirely the wrong message. Just as it was entirely the wrong message to let a man in the north of England get away with molesting a young boy due to “cultural differences”. So while a football player is sentenced to six years in jail for “grooming and molesting” a 15 year old girl, another man gets off with raping someone who really is a child.
These “cultural differences” should not be accepted in our society. In our society it is neither acceptable nor legal to molest young boys. In other parts of the world it is considered almost the norm. Remember that horrendous story about sex-slave boys being chained to the beds of officers serving in the Afghan army? Our army would, quite rightly, imprison someone who did that. In our society you can’t just grab hold of a woman because you like the look of her. In others, men are all-powerful and get away with murder, literally.
I no longer dare let my 12 year old son Leo go to a public loo alone. I have insisted the girls download rape alarm apps. Never mind terrorism, Europe is less safe because of the appalling life in so many other places, which means literally millions of people who don’t share our values want to live here.
Quite what we thought would happen when we opened our borders to people who have in some cases been badly damaged by war and\or others have a very different concept of right and wrong, I don’t know.
What I do know is that by introducing single-sex carriages, we are doing exactly what the terrorists who create such hell in our usually peaceful cities want. We are turning our liberal, safe and democratic society into one resembling theirs. Which means they are winning. And that is the wrong message.

Me and my Santé magazine column

It must  be more than 10 years ago that I received a call from an editor at the French magazine Santé. I was on a train at the time, heading from our home in the south of France to London, and I remember the line being rather bad. The editor asked me if I would be interested in writing a beauty column for them entitled ‘Me and my…..’ I had to double check that I hadn’t misheard. “But I can’t write in French,” I protested. The editor suggested I find a translator. They wanted something with “typical British humour”. They had seen my column in the Sunday Times and decided I was the woman for the job. The Santé column is still going, with my lovely friend and translator Jacques Kuhnle translating every one. Over the next few months I am going to publish a selection here, starting with this one about Japanese skin care.

Me and my Japanese skin care regime 

It was at the Viva Mayr Clinic in Austria that I first heard about Japanese skin care. I was there to research a book about ageing the Viva Mayr way. The clinic, situated on the shores of an Austrian lake, is the go-to place for those who can afford the time and the cost of taking the “cure” as they call it, which basically means cleansing from the inside out. I have neither time nor money, but one of the perks f being a writer is that you get invited to all sorts of places you could never afford to go to in order to write about them.

These retreats make for interesting social dynamics. For a start you end up wearing nothing but your dressing gown in front of strangers. And the first topic of conversation is usually (at Viva Mayr anyway) about your digestive system. I met a lovely woman called Kendal on my visit there. Once we had compared our digestive systems we moved on to skincare. Kendal lives in Japan and told me how Japanese women look after their skin. This is something that has always fascinated me, as you don’t really see many Japs who have aged badly. I assumed it was due to all the fish they ate, and in part it may be, but they are also dedicated to caring for their skin extremely well. Kendal gave me some of her Japanese products to try, along with a sheet of instructions for the facial massage that is at the centre of any Japanese cleansing ritual. I have since run out of the lovely products she gave me but this is where my ‘layering’ method of skincare was born.

Scan 4It is more or less the same regime morning and evening, although in the morning I don’t remove my make-up and I use a day cream with SPF instead of a night cream.
It begins with removing my make-up. I use a lotion, usually Clarins Cleansing Milk with Alpine Herbs. If I have been wearing eye make-up I use an eye make-up remover too. Next it’s the deeper cleansing and massage stage. This is what the Japanese refer to as the ‘cleansing the pores’ stage, where you go beyond the superficial and get deep down into your skin. Here I use my favourite cleanser, Eve Lom Cleanser. You need a cleanser that is thick and creamy because this is also where the massaging comes in. The Japanese, as you would imagine, have an extremely precise set of instructions on the massage. I started by following them on the sheet of paper Kendal gave me, but now I just improvise. The idea of the facial massage is of course to deep cleanse, but also to relax the muscles, thus smoothing away wrinkles and eliminating toxins. Focus on your jawline, cheeks, forehead and the area around the eyes. I usually massage for between one and two minutes.

Once I have removed the cleanser, I tone. Following that I layer skincare products on my face and neck. I always start with a serum to nourish my skin; my advice pick one with active ingredients such as hyaluronic acid or vitamin C. Following that is the oil, and finally a night cream at night or a day cream for the day. And don’t forget the eye cream, another good excuse to gently massage your eye area.

The future is definitely not orange…

“This isn’t a scam isn’t it?” I asked Laura from Orange Models. “I mean I know people do lure young girls in with the promise of an illustrious modeling career and all they’re really doing is selling them a portfolio.”
Laura assured me it was not. Several times. And as I normally do when someone answers a direct question, I believed her.
The reason I was talking at Laura at all was that my daughter Olivia had spotted an ad online. ‘Models needed’ it read. And gave an email address and instructions on how to upload pictures. Olivia has had some modelling experience. Well she did one job, for Centrepoint, a charity that helps homeless young people. So she figured she would give it a go. Minutes after the sent them her picture, Laura was on the phone to her. And then she had to talk to me, as Olivia is a minor.
“We really like her look,” she gushed. “She’s quite mature looking isn’t she for her age? She’s got a really interesting face. We think she’d be perfect for High Street brands like Top Shop and Zara and catalogues.”
Laura continued for about 15 minutes, telling me all about how the High Street brands are looking for new, young faces, girls aged 15 or 16.

“But she’s too short to be a model,” I said. “She’s only 5 foot six.”
“Oh there are no height restrictions for that age group,” Laura assured me and then proceeded to tell me what the procedure was.
Olivia was being invited for a four-hour assessment, where there would be people on hand to do her hair and make-up, a stylist to dress her and a photographer to take pictures of her.
“But this must be a scam,” I said. “You can’t possibly provide all that for nothing. What is this going to cost me?”
Nothing at all I was told bar a £50 deposit to secure the studio and staff. This would be refunded as soon as I showed up on the day. “We make our money by passing models on to agencies who get work for them.”
I asked her again if it was a scam or if we were going to be asked to buy the images. Not at all I was assured. They were simply assessing Olivia’s potential to become a model.
“So if you think she has potential you will take her on without me buying a portfolio?”
“Yes of course.”
Olivia was very excited about her future as a model. She recently dropped out of school and was facing the prospect of one mundane job after another. The thought of becoming Kate Moss was incredibly appealing.
I had by now started to believe Laura. She really did talk a good game and she seemed genuinely keen on my daughter, telling me again and again how interesting her face was and what potential she had.
As the day drew closer though and I was faced with the prospect of trekking up to London for it I thought I ought to just double check. So I called Orange again. Laura was out but her colleague asked if he could help me.
Again I repeated my scam question. Again I was assured Olivia was there for a genuine assessment, and that if she were successful she would become a model.
Olivia and I arrived at the studios of Metro Photography at the allotted time with her vital statistics listed and a bag full of clothes for her to change into for her various “looks”.
We were greeted by a girl called Gisela and her stylist Pedro. Gisela painstakingly filled out a form with us, all about Olivia and what sort of model she could become. Then came the photo shoots. Five different looks, involving five locations (outside in the freezing cold, in the studio etc), makeup and hair five times and so on. The whole process took hours. I had to dash off to a meeting so Olivia’s father had to come and take over while the team “assessed” her pictures and decided if she had a future as a model.

Olivia said it was lucky I wasn’t there for the so-called assessment. A man with a rather annoying lisp droned on for ages, keeping them in suspense as to whether Olivia had “made it” until the last minute. They looked at the photos, apparently she looked great, and then EUREKA! She had made it, she could be a model, she could be the next Kendal Jenner. Olivia of course was utterly thrilled. Rupert was happy too, until they told him he would have to buy a portfolio. For £700.

So they had repeatedly lied to me. I wonder how these people can sleep at night knowing they make their living giving innocent punters false hope. How could Gisela (if indeed that is her name) go through all this all day, day in, day out knowing it’s all a lie?
I have to hand it to Orange “models” as they call themselves and their partners, Metro Photography. The whole process was meticulously thought out, every detail made you think they were actually serious until of course they slap you with the bill.
By that stage of course there will be people who have been so overwhelmed and seduced by the whole “modelling” experience that they just can’t say no. And heaven knows what lengths they will go to in order to come up with £700 for something that will be of no use to them whatsoever. We saw two other people fall for it while we were there; one very sweet girl who was about the height of my 12 year old son so is never going to be a model and another woman who was even older than I am.
At best what Orange and Metro are doing is preying on people’s vanity, at worst on their insecurities and their need to be loved.
Whichever it is, they need to be stopped.

My books of the year

I have been meaning to do this for days and I guess it’s now or never. Having read a lot of fairly dreary lists of books of the year I would like to share my own hopefully not so dreary list….

A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal by Ben McIntyreimgres
Utterly brilliant read, a bit like a thriller in fact, totally unputdownable, extremely well written and researched, made me want to d0 nothing but read about spies for months.

Decline and Fall by Evelyn Waugh

imagesOne of the funniest books you are ever likely to read, it follows the downfall and eventual redemption of the unlikely hero Paul Pennyfeather. It was Waugh’s first novel but contains some of the most memorable characters in literature such as the public school man Grimes who is irresistible, irrepressible and appalling all at the same time. Worth reading just for the prep-school scenes, which are laugh-out loud funny and scarily close to the truth….

We are all completely beside ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler
imgres-1This is such a clever book. It manages to combine tragedy and comedy perfectly, as well as telling a really moving and compelling story. One of the few contemporary novels I read this year and really enjoyed. If you haven’t read it then do so immediately.




Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons
images-1One of those books I first read as a teenager and reread this year. I’m so glad I did. It is hysterically funny. Some of the one-liners are reminiscent of Dorothy Parker in their brilliance such as the following: “There are some things (like first love and one’s first reviews) at which a woman in her middle years does not care to look too closely.” Hear, hear!

imgres-2Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford
And talking of brilliant one-liners…in fact read anything by Nancy. She is the female equivalent of Waugh, just as sharp, perceptive, snobbish and entertaining. I devoured all her books this year and will probably read them again next year. Unforgettable touches such as the “Hons” club her heroine belongs to. A lightness of touch coupled with incisive perception. Just perfect.

Finally the book of the year NOT to read….

How to be both by Ali Smith
Incomprehensible, pretentious drivel. Parts of it are nicely written but rather like Alice laments a book without pictures, I can’t see the point of a book with no plot. I wanted to know how to be neither by the end. In fact I couldn’t even bear to get to the end.

The runaway parents’ club

There are several stages of parenting, and you tend to share them with your girlfriends. The excitement of the first pregnancy scan, the birth, followed by the toddler stage, comparing first steps and first words, the funny things they say, the adorable things they do. Then comes the (mainly) harmless pre-pubescent stage and finally the bit we all dread that bridges childhood and adulthood. Yep, the teenage years.
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but as the mother of a couple of girls who were nicknamed the ferals by a close friend back in 2008, I predicted it wouldn’t be easy.
It is not, but as with the other parenting stages, I am not alone. A lot of my friends are going through similar (and worse) things than I am. One friend had her car stolen, driven all over the county and dumped in a field, filthy and rather predictably out of petrol. Another left her daughter staying with friends while she went abroad for a few days. When she got back the daughter had hosted an enormous party, trashed the house (including a broken floor, I mean how the hell do you do that?!), drunk everything that even resembled alcohol and even managed to damage the next door neighbour’s place.
As I lay in bed last night fuming over the injustices linked to being the parent of a teenager and wondering if I could run away from home, I had an idea.
As my heroine Nora Ephron was fond of saying: “Everything is copy.” There was a film in 1996 starring Goldie Hawn, Diane Keaton and Bette Midler called The First Wives Club. imgres
It tells the story of three friends whose husbands have all left them for younger women. The first wives plot their revenge with hilarious consequences. How about a similar film about three friends whose teenagers have ritually abused them, trashed their homes, flunked out of school, stolen from them (I could go on) plotting how to finally get control of their offspring?
I imagine something like a kidnap where the three teenagers are whisked off to some awful boot-camp in Wales by the mothers all wearing cat-woman type disguises, armed with whips and Taser guns.
Here the adolescents are subjected to the kind of things they subject their parents to on a daily basis, as well as some rigorous exercise, hideous arithmetic and French verbs thrown in for good measure, possibly even the odd (fake of course) life-threatening situation. When they eventually “escape” (also part of the mothers’ plot) and get home they are so grateful to be there they are utter lambs.
And at any sign of dissent the mothers have only to drop the word ‘Wales’ into the conversation to trigger terrible flashbacks…

Happy Birthday dear Biologico

24598_101777316529563_3127801_nToday is my father’s birthday. Or at least it would have been, but he died in January 2014.
I didn’t really know him until I was a teenager. My mother and he split up when I was two. She and I moved to Sweden then England and we had no contact with him until we went back to Italy over ten years later. When he first met me after all that time, he was disappointed. I didn’t speak Italian, I had no idea who Dante was, and my hero was John Travolta. “I see you have inherited my looks and your mother’s brains, a most unfortunate way for things to have turned out,” was one of the first things he said to me. It seemed too late to call him ‘daddy’ so he became ‘biologico’ for obvious reasons.
He was not the most patient man, and this was before the days when children had any say in their upbringing whatsoever. Our first few years together were spent battling . Him battling to make me more intelligent, me battling to remain in the mediocrity I felt comfortable with. I am now struggling with a similar situation, trying to stop my own teenage daughter from being as stupid as I was.
At the time of course I was sure he was wrong, that how one spoke was irrelevant, that learning Dante was utterly ridiculous and that there was no real reason to read books or stop smoking. But now on his birthday I look back on all his efforts as a kind of gift. I never did learn the Divine Comedy off by heart (as he did) but I am glad that he at least opened my eyes to a world above John Travolta, smoking cigarettes and ghastly pop music.
I guess that is all you can do with children, show them what’s out there, and hope they pick up on it. Even if it takes several years for the message to get through. Sometimes it probably doesn’t even get through.1008974_655292077863679_1983957060_o
As Dorothy Parker put it so well while on a quiz show trying to use the word horticulture in a sentence: “You can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think.”
I wish he were here today of course, I would phone him up and wish him Happy Birthday, he would immediately be able to tell if something was bothering me and give me some advice on how to deal with it, then he would say “grazie per la chiamata”, hang up and get back to his writing.
The best way to remember him will be to spend the day writing. He was a firm believer in working every day, and not letting too much nonsense get in the way. Of course sometimes as far as he was concerned I was the nonsense, he did constantly remind me of how stupid I was, which at the time felt kind of harsh, but looking back on it now seems fair.
Happy Birthday dear Biologico, and thank you.